


numbers

by peeves



Series: mending [3]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: 5x09, Bipolar Disorder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-16
Updated: 2015-03-16
Packaged: 2018-03-18 04:46:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3556556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peeves/pseuds/peeves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ian let out an empty laugh. “What, in 40 years?” <i>Ballpark.</i> 30, 40 years. 40 years. He would be 57 by then. Going to the clinic was shoving a dull knife into his gut and hearing the physician’s answer was receiving a death sentence. <i>30, 40 years</i>, the knife digs deeper, <i>30, 40 years</i>, the knife twists, <i>30, 40 years</i>.</p><p>Lip grimaced, because that’s exactly why there was no point of him staying home. He couldn’t help Ian. He couldn’t make that number smaller or make that number disappear. Practically, logically, the only thing that would truly help Ian is if Ian weren’t bipolar at all, and Lip couldn’t do that for him. Lip was fluent in bullshit but mediocre with superficial comfort, and he forced himself to try again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	numbers

**Author's Note:**

> 5x09 was a disaster, and "you got this" was a joke, so this is me trying to make myself feel better for that mess

“Think I’m gonna need Fiona’s boss to give me a job too,” Lip said, pulling out a cigarette and handing it to Ian, who took it with a forced, steady hand.

“Tuition?”

“I got no other options.”

“What are you gonna do?”

“I dunno. Face the music, I guess.”

Ian sat down on the bench, trying to distract himself from his own problems by thinking about Lip’s, wondering how Lip was going to get himself out of that mess. Lip leaned back on the heels of his feet, steeling himself to dive into the conversation he felt obligated to have. The conversation he wanted to have, he told himself.

“Heard you went to the clinic? Mickey hold a gun to your head?” Lip asked.

The word ‘clinic’ kickstarted Ian’s heart rate and within seconds he could feel it pounding heavily in his chest. _Come on. Calm down._

“No, it was my idea,” he corrected. Mickey suggested it, sure, but if it weren’t for the fact—he couldn’t get the image out of his head no matter how much it hurt to think about—that he almost hurt Debbie—he cringed, what if he had swung the bat just a bit lower?—he wouldn’t have complied.

After Mickey had walked him through both doors of the house, shoving reality into his face and begging him to see it, he was forced to come to terms with the fact that he initially saw something that wasn’t there. Something wasn’t right. He wasn’t in danger this morning. He _was_ the danger, the threat to the safety of everyone in the house. And God, he couldn’t bear to be that.

“Something’s wrong with me, you know,” Ian muttered, barely discernible, testing the words on his lips. He hated saying those words out loud. Saying them out loud made them all the more real, all the more impossible to ignore. He clenched and unclenched his hands, begging his heart rate to please, calm the fuck down. It was something he had only just admitted to himself, and now the concept was concrete. Something was wrong. Something was wrong with him.

Lip didn’t know how to deal with this sudden turn of attitude; the last time he checked, Ian had flushed his pills. Hell, he couldn’t even remember the last time his brother admitted any kind of vulnerability at all. But Ian sat there, hands shaking, purposefully avoiding eye contact and bracing himself for Lip’s response.

“Yeah, but you’re gonna get better, right?” Lip grappled lamely with optimism and meaningless feel-good reassurance. Maybe he could bait his brother into hoping for the best the way he used to; maybe then he wouldn’t have to talk about it.

Ian let out an empty laugh. “What, in 40 years?” _Ballpark_. 30, 40 years. 40 years. He would be 57 by then. Going to the clinic was shoving a dull knife into his gut and hearing the physician’s answer was receiving a death sentence. _30, 40 years_ , the knife digs deeper, _30, 40 years_ , the knife twists, _30, 40 years_.

Lip grimaced, because that’s exactly why there was no point of him staying home. He couldn’t help Ian. He couldn’t make that number smaller or make that number disappear. Practically, logically, the only thing that would truly help Ian is if Ian weren’t bipolar at all, and Lip couldn’t do that for him. Lip was fluent in bullshit but mediocre with superficial comfort, and he forced himself to try again.

“Hey, you remember David? He used you to, uh break the record of black eyes given in a single calendar school year,” Lip said, crouching down closer to his brother who was staring fixated at the ground. “I was gonna kill that motherfucker. I always remember what you told me. You said, I got this.” Lip stared up at Ian, willing him to understand. “Ian…you got this.” _You didn't want my help before, and I can't help you now_. 

Ian’s shoulders slouched a bit more, curling in on himself and wishing Lip’s words could make the knife go away. But he was naive and stupid to think that it could. He forced himself to stand up, pat Lip on the shoulder to say thanks for trying, and started walking away.

“Hey, wait, hold on,” Lip said, pulling his brother back.

“What?”

“Come on.” This was as far as Lip could go in pleading for his brother not to walk away.

“Come on what? ‘You got this’? I’m going to be on meds for the next forty fucking years of my life, and you’re telling me that I fuckin’ got this?”

“What the fuck did you want me to say?” Lip’s response was childish, an excuse, another way to push responsibility away from him.

Ian scoffed, torn between his disappointment in his brother and the self-hatred for having expectations in the first place.

“Nothing, alright? Just forget it,” Ian said, shoving his hands into his pockets, trying to hide the fact that he still couldn’t stop his hands from fucking shaking. Goddammit. Goddammit. Fuck.

Lip ran a hand through his hair, looking up at the sky. For what? Some kind of fucking sign? If there were a sign, it would be a message written in the clouds saying **Lip, you're a shitty brother**.

“Okay look, no, I’m sorry, okay? That was stupid. What’s wrong with you…it isn’t something that you just…okay so you don’t fucking got this, but so what?” 

Ian stayed silent, concentrating on digging his nails into his palms, trying to get the image of a knife in his gut out of his mind.

Lip tried again. “It’s not the end of your life. It takes a few weeks, but once you find the meds that are right for you, you’ll be able to manage things. Shit, just…just don’t fucking quit, okay?”

“How do you know?” Ian gritted through his teeth.

“How the fuck do I know?” Lip laughed, hating himself for how bitter it sounded. “Because as soon as I knew something was wrong with Monica, I got my hands on all the info I could. From the fucking library, the Internet, whatever. There are tons of people out there that live with this shit, Ian, and now you’re one of them.”

Monica. God, he hated being compared to Monica. He closed his eyes, pulled his jacket closer around him, and willed himself to believe what Lip was saying. 30, 40 fucking years. 40 fucking years. 40 fucking years. 40 fucking years.

“40 fucking years,” he whispered.

“It won’t take that long for you to get a handle on things, man. A few years, maybe. A few weeks. It’s different for everyone. But it won’t take you 40 years to get a handle on things, alright?” Lip felt more in his element when they started talking about numbers. He was familiar with numbers. Numbers were solid. You could work with numbers. 

Ian finally looked at Lip who stared back unwaveringly. He desperately wanted to believe. 

“Alright?” Lip repeated.

Ian nodded slowly and exhaled, feeling the edge of his pain soften. The knife was still there, but at least it stopped twisting.


End file.
